The Beach
by wollaston
Summary: After seeing the broadcast of Peeta's first interview, Katniss retreats to solitude, only to find herself revisiting her memories. Katniss' POV


I can only think of Peeta. I rub the pearl over my lips, eyes half-closed in the dark of my compartment. He looked so whole, so clean in that interview. I think of the momentary panic in Caesar's face when Peeta leaned in close, and remember his anger on our victory tour, the lamp he smashed in that secret corner of District 11. I wonder if that room is still untouched, and I want it to be. I want the last feet to have stood there to have been mine and Peeta's and Haymitch's. I want that smashed lamp to still be on that floor. I want there to be some sort of physical evidence of our existence that has not been tampered with by the Capitol or the rebels or both.

I close my eyes, the sound of my mother and Prim breathing suddenly feels too loud, the dark too oppressive. When I stand a wave of dizziness hits me and I have to wait for my balance to return before I can move. There have been nights when the doors are locked, or maybe nights when just my door is locked, but tonight is not one of them. I slip into the hall as silently as possible, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I need to be alone.

The silence underground is painful. At home when I wake from my nightmares I can sit and listen to the wind whipping through the district. Even in the Victor's Village I can hear the way it howls through the mines, a sound I never thought I would miss. Down here the only nighttime sounds are the occasional snore from behind a closed door, the soft whrr of District 13's ventilation system, the buzz of the emergency lights that sounds so very much like the fence from home when it's electrified. I stop short, reminding myself to stop thinking of home in anything but the past tense. District 12 is not there, Katniss.

I don't remember finding the supply closet. I don't even know which one I'm in, they are as uniform here as everything else. But I know it is not one I have visited recently, because I have to push a few things out of my way to worm myself back into the corner. I close my eyes, drop my head back against the wall, and I realize the pearl is still clenched in my fist. Uncurling my fingers, I look down at it, my hands trembling. I have never taken it out of my compartment. I have never wanted to risk losing it. I suddenly feel more vulnerable and exposed than I ever did in either arena. In this secret corner of what is supposed to be the safest place in Panem, I am shaking with fear.

The pearl is against my lips again, pressed into them with my fingertips. I reach into my memory, trying to uncover something I have been so reluctant to touch. It is night, we are on the beach, everyone is asleep. There is only me, and Peeta, and the innumerable audience across Panem who are riveted to their televisions. I remember Peeta's hands, the nervous way his fingers rubbed against his palms as he spoke. His voice. His eyes. I am back in that moment and Peeta's eyes are so clear and so deep and so honest. When he leans in and presses his lips to mine I collapse against him, I feel tears welling in my eyes and for the briefest moment I know there are a thousand women weeping in front of their televisions at the sight. Then I feel Peeta's mouth open, his tongue cautiously brushing my lips, and I don't resist him.

We are in the sand, Peeta lowering himself on top of me, his mouth is against mine but it is nothing like kissing as I know it. I feel his breath, hot and urgent against my lips, my tongue, and he carefully extracts his fingers from the hold they had in my hair and slides his hand over my neck, down my chest, cupping my breast through my undershirt. The soft sound that escapes me must be exactly what he wanted, because he echoes it, and shifts, leaning on me, and I feel the swell of him pressed against my thigh. My heart is racing, my hands moving over his skin, pressing him as close as I can. There is so much need in me I feel as though I might burst. My face is wet, and I think that those welling tears have finally spilled over, but when Peeta buries his face against my neck I feel it again, and I realize that the tears are his.

The tears streaming down my face now are my own. Peeta is a world away, unreachable, untouchable. My heart clenches and I am having a hard time breathing. I press the pearl into my palm, squeezing it as tightly as I can, hoping that maybe somehow he can feel it. Wherever they have him, whatever they are doing to him, whatever they have told him about me or the cause or our home, I want him to know I am holding on to him.

When I rise my knees are stiff, my feet tingling and numb. I must have spent hours lost in that memory. The halls are still empty, though, the emergency lights have not been doused in favor of the harsh white overheads that give me headaches. I wander, hyperaware of the feeling in my belly, between my legs. It is accompanied by a twist of guilt that grips me so hard I am afraid it will squeeze that memory right out of me. When I return to my compartment I am extra careful tucking away the pearl, give the parachute an extra twist, separating it from the spile so it wont be scratched. As though keeping it as clean and whole as I saw Peeta on that screen will somehow protect him.


End file.
